


1-800-273-8255

by Haunt_Haunt_Haunt



Category: Monster Prom (Visual Novel)
Genre: Arguing, Bad Parenting, Depression, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Sometimes You Just Want to Feel Human, Weirdly Specific Coping Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 00:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16881756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haunt_Haunt_Haunt/pseuds/Haunt_Haunt_Haunt
Summary: Life really sucks. But sometimes, it gets better.





	1-800-273-8255

Damien smelled gasoline. He knew the smell of gasoline. At least, that’s what he said after the fact. I wasn’t convinced, and neither were the cops, but there was no evidence to force a conviction, so they left without incident. I stood by the still smoldering auditorium with a blanket wrapped around me. The paramedics had finished with me and I was free to go, but really, I was still in shock. I often came out here late at night to practice. You didn’t get better without it, and besides, I preferred school to home these days. My parents fought even when I was home now, and I just wanted to get away. It wasn’t like I was breaking and entering. The auditorium was on campus, but it wasn’t fenced off or anything. I looked at the wreck that was my carrying case. That flute was worth a lot of money, and now it was gone, just like that. I didn’t know if I could afford another one. Damien slinked over to me.  
“Are you alright?”

I sighed, thinking for two seconds about letting him have it, but my anger subsided. I was just tired.

“I’m fine.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again and walked away. That was a week ago. I had mostly recovered from the explosion and the school was already busy rebuilding. It came as no surprise when the police found out Damien was behind the explosion. Because there was someone caught in the blast, it fell to me as to whether or not I wanted to press charges. Of course I did, but because I wasn’t 18, my parents got the final say, and they just wanted it to go away, so no charges were filed, I was grounded for sneaking out, and now, here I was, stuck in my room, and they were arguing. Again. This time it was about whose fault it was that I snuck out.

In retrospect, I don’t think it really mattered anymore. At this point, they were just finding reasons to argue. And it was worse this time, because I didn’t have headphones to drown it out. I looked over at the case of razorblades on my desk again. It was tempting. It was really tempting. I stood up from the desk and wiped my palms on my jeans. What was I thinking?

“Then do something. File for divorce. I’d be shocked if you got off your ass. I’d happily sign papers!”

I grabbed a razorblade. It was something. It was something other than the depressing, embarrassing, horrendous thing that had somehow led to the living room. I had it leveled to my wrist when something clattered against my window, and I jumped. I lived on the second floor. What the actual fuck. There was a clatter again, and then a thud, then a person landed in front of my window. I thought about screaming, but did I really want to get punished? Would I even be heard over the fighting? A red hand tapped on my window, and of course, it was Damien. He sat down on the roof next to my window. I went and opened it.

“You can’t be serious. Do you have any idea—“

“I was gonna knock on the door, but I can hear them from the front lawn,” he said, interrupting. I looked down, ashamed. He continued to look at me, as if expecting something. His yellow eyes drilled into me. I squirmed.

“Wanna get out of here?” He finally asked. I looked at the door. Would I be missed? They rarely checked on me anymore. It sounded like the fighting had mostly died down. The front door slammed. Probably my dad. He’d be back soon, meaner and drunker.

“I really shouldn’t. If they found out that I left again,” I didn’t finish the sentence. He shrugged.

“Move over then. My red ass isn’t small.” He came into my room. I had a person in my room. I didn’t really know what I was supposed to feel. He looked around for a minute, then spotted the case of razorblades on my desk, which he abruptly pocketed. I wanted to complain, but was it really worth it? I considered it a blessing. My willpower clearly wasn’t enough anymore. He extended a hand expectantly, and I dropped the one I had grabbed into it. He pocketed that one too.

“None of that. I understand, but it’s not going to help.”

I sat on the bed, too tired to even cry. I just hung my head loosely.

“You don’t have to talk. That’s okay. I’m probably the last person in the world you want to see, and that’s okay too. But at least hear me out. You’re better than this. You deserve more than this. There isn’t anything you can do, and it feels hopeless. I get it. I’ve been there, but you shouldn’t let your depression win. You have a lot to live for.”

He had struck the heart of the problem. I didn’t want to live anymore. I wasn’t actively suicidal. That wasn’t the problem. I just wouldn’t have moved if a bus was coming. He turned and presented a box. It was wrapped in Christmas wrapping paper, and it was wrapped badly, but I couldn’t help but smile. It was July. Had he done this? Damien and I weren’t exactly peers. We hardly ever spoke. He was too busy hanging out with Polly and Vera to bother with the likes of me.

“Go ahead,” he said. I opened it. I recognized the black hard case immediately. I gingerly opened it, and inside was a flute. The exact make and model of my old one. That did it. Tears started streaming down my face.

“I thought it was gone. I never thought I’d have another one,” I managed between sobs.

“I’m sorry I blew you up. I honestly didn’t know you were there. Also, I’m sorry that you have to deal with shitty parents. I can’t do anything about that, but I can offer my house, if you ever need to just get away. My dads love guests, and they would have you any time.”

I couldn’t get much out between the sobs. I could hear my mom coming up the stairs. He started climbing back out the window.

“I’m keeping the razors. We’ll talk more later.”


End file.
